


One more step (one more mile)

by Bohemian (Linguam)



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Alec Lightwood, Hurt Magnus Bane, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic Depletion, True Love, baths, or rather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2019-08-22 06:32:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16592651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguam/pseuds/Bohemian
Summary: “Magnus.” Alec cups his boyfriend’s neck with his other hand and gives it a light shake. “Hey, you with me?”Magnus blinks up at him languidly. His unglamoured eyes are more of a faded yellow than a vibrant gold, the right pupil almost completely blown; he looks drunk, or drugged, or both. There’s a trail of blood running from his nose, another going down the corner of his mouth. Alec doesn’t have the first idea how it feels to be magically depleted, but if Magnus’s labored breathing is anything to go by, it’s a lot like slowly suffocating—or maybe heissuffocating, maybe this place is doing something to him, or there’s a wound somewhere Alec can’t see, but either way,either way,there’s nothing Alec can do about it, not while they’re stillhere.There’s nothing he can do and he’s completely fucking terrified.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Gratuitous use of the f-word. Alec is stressed, ok?
> 
> Have had this first chapter done for quite some time and figured I might as well post it. Who knows, maybe it'll give me enough of an incentive to write chapter 2.

Alec brings down his Seraph blade with such force he almost overbalances, and the demon dissolves in a spray of black smoke.

Panting, he scans their surroundings: the charred ground, the dark imprints of mountains in the distance against a blood red sky. Shadows loom around them ominously, thick like oil. But there are no more demons.

Alec pivots around, discards his blade and falls more than lowers himself onto the ground in front of the figure slouching against the stone wall.

“Magnus,” he hisses urgently. He reaches for one of Magnus’s limp hands. “Magnus, I need you to take my strength.”

The only reason they’re in this situation is because Alec had found himself the chew toy of a Hellhound and Magnus had used a significant—and probably excessive—amount of power to blast it, and every demon in the near vicinity, into oblivion.

Neither of them had expected another wave to hit as soon as it did.

“Magnus.” Alec cups his boyfriend’s neck with his other hand and gives it a light shake. “Hey, you with me?”

Magnus blinks up at him languidly. His unglamoured eyes are more of a faded yellow than a vibrant gold, the right pupil almost completely blown; he looks drunk, or drugged, or both. There’s a trail of blood running from his nose, another going down the corner of his mouth. Alec doesn’t have the first idea how it feels to be magically depleted, but if Magnus’s labored breathing is anything to go by, it’s a lot like slowly suffocating—or maybe he _is_ suffocating, maybe this place is doing something to him, or there’s a wound somewhere Alec can’t see, but either way, _either way,_ there’s nothing Alec can do about it, not while they’re still _here._

There’s nothing he can do and he’s completely fucking terrified.

“Magnus,” he tries again, swallowing against the fear threatening to consume him and hoping that Magnus will respond to the urgency in his voice if not to the actual words. “I know you’re tired, but you have to listen to me: you need to take my strength and portal us out of here, _now._ ”

Magnus blinks again, a little more forcefully this time, and Alec feels like the world’s biggest asshole, not to mention a terrible boyfriend, because it’s clear Magnus doesn’t follow what he’s saying at _all._

“No.”

Alec exhales wearily.

“ _Yes,_ ” he insists. “The demons might be gone for now but they will be back and we can’t be here when they return.”

Magnus squeezes his eyes shut, grimacing at some unseen discomfort. His skin is almost the same color as the dust gray stone behind him. His head lolls weakly against its surface.

“Need it more,” he croaks, and hysteria bubbles up Alec’s throat because they’ve had this exact argument three times already.

It’s true that Alec has painfully little to offer; the fight was short but brutal, and aside from the burning in his shoulder from the Hellhound bite, he is bruised and littered with various cuts and scrapes, not to mention that he’d been coming off a twenty-hour shift when they got the alert that landed them here.

But that is honestly the _least_ of their concerns.

He plasters what he hopes is a reassuring smile onto his face.

“What I _need,_ ” he begins slowly, making sure he has Magnus’s attention—or what’s left of it—before continuing, “Is for us to _leave_ this place. I know you’re tired, I _know,_ and I’m sorry, but you’re the only one who can make that happen.”

Alec would love nothing more than to simply walk out of this subdimension of Hell they’re in, but that’s simply not how it _works._

There’s an inhuman screech from somewhere behind them, far too close for comfort, and Alec’s grip on Magnus’s neck tightens instinctively.

“Strength’s not… magic,” Magnus slurs, terrifyingly oblivious about the looming threat, and Alec knows that. The two are closely connected, the physical and the magical, but they’re not one and the same. He _knows_ that, and there’s nothing he can do about the magical, other than hope Magnus has some hidden reserves with enough magic left to make a portal.

But Alec also knows that they won’t even stand a _chance_ of getting out of here if Magnus can’t even stay awake long enough to _try_ making it.

“I know, but it’ll have to do,” he says. He gives Magnus’s hand an insistent squeeze. “Now come on, _take it._ ”

The irony of the fact that Magnus needs to use magic to take Alec’s strength isn’t lost on him. He just prays that whatever he’s able to give will make up for it _and_ be enough to create a portal.

Magnus shakes his head groggily.

“Can’t.”

“Yes, you _can._ ”

Magnus is watching him with something akin to amusement, of all things, a soft smile pulling at his bloodless lips.

“So stubborn,” he mumbles softly.

Alec smiles tightly.

“You’re one to talk.” He ignores his instincts screaming at him to remain vigilant, to keep track of their surroundings, and leans in until their foreheads touch. “For me, Magnus, _please._ ”

He feels more than he hears Magnus sigh against him.

When there’s a weak pull somewhere in his chest a few moments later, Alec sags in relief. It doesn’t feel at all like it did last time they did this, more tentative, much less insistent, and Alec pushes every ounce of strength and energy he possesses towards that pull, begging for Magnus to take it all.

It’s over far too soon, but as Alec opens his eyes to insist that Magnus take more only for the world to spin nauseatingly before him, he’s forced to admit that any longer and he’ll likely black out.

He blinks the world back into focus and notices Magnus watching him with hooded eyes, looking no better than before. He doesn’t wait to catch his breath—they don’t have the luxury for it—but pulls one of Magnus’s arms over his shoulder and, bracing his hip against the mountain wall, pushes them up to standing. Magnus sags against him almost immediately, and Alec’s vision momentarily goes black at the change of elevation. He grits his teeth, wills his rapidly fading stamina to last for a little longer, and leans them both heavily against the stone surface.

“Magnus?”

Magnus’s skin is ashen, eyes and head both rolling, chapped lips parted to allow for wheezing, cut-off breaths. Alec is acutely aware of how vulnerable they are right now, unprotected in a hostile environment and both of them clinging to consciousness with the last scraps of their willpower.

“Magnus, you need to make that portal,” he pants.

When his words give no reaction, he shakes them both.

They almost fall right back down.

“ _Magnus,_ ” he repeats sharply, because, fuck, he can _hear_ more demons closing in on them and he doesn’t even have his damn _blade;_ it’s still lying useless on the ground next to his feet. “Magnus, _make that damn portal!_ ”

Alec spent a major part of his life hating himself, for all the ways he found himself lacking, for who he was, and later for what he felt and for whom. But none of those times come even _close_ to the depth of the self-hatred he feels now at the confusion and hurt flashing in Magnus’s dull golden eyes.

But, fuck it all to Edom, they don’t have _time_ for Alec to be patient.

“Home, Magnus,” Alec insists, more gently but just as urgently. “We need to go _home._ Okay?”

Magnus stares at him uncomprehendingly, and yes, the shadows are _definitely_ moving now, and fuck, _fuck,_ they won’t make it, they won’t—

Magnus raises a badly trembling arm. Weak bursts of blue circle his fingers. There is a terrifying moment where nothing happens, but then a portal flickers into existence. It’s so pale it's almost translucent, but Alec doesn’t question it, doesn’t think, just drags Magnus towards it.

They stumble through the portal, and Alec has a brief view of brick walls and high ceiling windows before darkness engulfs him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, I have a second chapter in mind; unfortunately, it still only exists in my head. Will get to writing it at some point, but it'll probably take a while.
> 
> #SaveShadowhunters


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me almost a year, but here it is! I promise you I'm more surprised than you are that I finally managed to produce this second chapter, lol; but, I bet you're more interested in the chapter than in hearing me express my profound and most sincerest apologies for this inexcusable delay, so without further ado!

The demons keep coming.

Alec drops his bow and grabs his blade, severing a barbed tail that comes a little too close for comfort. He can hear Magnus grunt behind him but he can’t afford to turn around and check on him, bringing his blade down into the horde of Ravener demons surrounding him, so densely packed that he doesn’t even have to aim. There are Iblis demons surrounding them too, and—although Alec can’t see them in the ever-shifting dance of red-black shadows of the valley—he can make out the clickety-click of Dahak demons moving somewhere close-by.

They’ve been at it for too long. Magnus’s magic is decidedly dimmer than it had been mere minutes ago, and Alec’s body burns from exertion. They need to leave, and for that to happen, Alec needs to keep the demons away from Magnus long enough for him to make a portal. But he is one man and there are literally hundreds of demons attacking them from all angles. It’s all he can do to stay upright, and even that is becoming a struggle.

He glimpses the shimmering red eyes half a second before the Hellhound pounces and sinks its maw into his shoulder.

The pain doesn’t register at first. All he feels is annoyance and a brief flair of alarm. Then the Hellhound yanks him down onto the ground, teeth scraping against bone, breaking it, and Alec thinks he hears Magnus scream his name but it’s drowned out by his own shout and the mass of scales and tentacles dripping ichor that floods his vision like a moving sea of claws and teeth. The air is cloying, sulfur sticky in his throat and lungs. Alec blindly reaches for his blade, for a discarded arrow, a rock, anything he can use as a weapon, but he can barely move, can’t even see the sky anymore, blackness and shrill hissing all around him—

Then the world burns.

 

Alec gasps awake.

His body heaves, the sound of his own panting all he can hear. Fire dances behind his eyes, a red tsunami skittering over his skin without burning him, incinerating every Hell-spawn in the vicinity.

His eyes twinge as they travel his surroundings. He’s lying on a carpet, soft against his cheek, the pattern vaguely familiar. Beyond it, a drink cart, and, further still, a dark door with horizontal gold stripes—the apothecary door.

The loft.

Relief sinks into his bones like a warm embrace before all those fragmented memories slide into place and Alec freezes. 

_Magnus._

He doesn’t even get his upper body off of the floor before he is falling back down with a strangled cry, his shoulder erupting in agony. He wheezes through clenched teeth, cold-sweat shivering down his spine.

“Magnus?” he croaks.

The lack of an answer is all the encouragement he needs to get moving again.

He gets his one functioning arm underneath him and pushes his way up high enough to turn his head. His breath catches.

Magnus is lying on his stomach, close enough to touch, facing away from him. He isn’t moving.

Alec scrambles across the floor, his own aches forgotten. Magnus’s eyes are closed, his face slack and tinted gray, beads of sweat at his hairline. There’s dried blood under his nose and at the corner of his mouth.

Alec’s fingers tremble as they reach out and touch Magnus’s throat. His arm almost gives out in relief when he finds a pulse; it’s sluggish and far too shallow, but it’s there.

“Okay,” he mumbles, the sound of his own voice loud in the silence. “Okay. I got you.”

Getting them both off of the floor and into the bedroom is a mission that makes facing a Greater Demon seem like child’s play. By the time Alec has gotten Magnus situated, jacket discarded somewhere on the floor, nausea is burning up his throat, his vision swimming. He can barely feel his shoulder anymore, but the knowledge holds little interest to him in the face of Magnus’s continued unresponsiveness.

There are no wet spots indicating open wounds, no give when Alec prods at Magnus’s ribs, no signature hardness over his abdomen to imply internal bleeding. Aside from the unconsciousness and the dried blood on his face, there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with him.

Alec has seen Magnus deplete himself before, but never to this degree. Normally, he’d call Catarina, but she’s at the Spiral Labyrinth with Madzie, unreachable. He doesn’t know of any other warlock that Magnus trusts enough to see him like this, or who has automatic access into the loft—and with Magnus vulnerable and Alec compromised, he’s not about to invite just about anyone into their home, at least not as long as it can be avoided.

Mind made up, he stumbles his way to the kitchen and puts on the kettle. It’s not a steak and martinis, but it will have to do. He adds some Echinacea root and another one he never remembers the name of and lets the tea simmer for as long as his frayed nerves will allow before making his unsteady way back to the bedroom.

Magnus is lying exactly where he’d left him, loose-limbed and unnaturally still. Alec hadn’t expected there to be any change, but the disappointment is still there.

He lowers himself onto the bed, miraculously without spilling any of the tea. Magnus’s head lolls in his grasp, but he does swallow, and the guilt keeping Alec’s breath hostage eases a little. He knows this isn’t his fault, is no one’s fault, but the thought still lingers—that there was something he could have done to prevent this outcome, some way that wouldn’t have ended with Magnus laid up and dangerously low on magic.

He drags an armchair over to the bed and collapses into it with a wince. He knows he should contact his siblings, not to mention deal with his own injuries, but his phone isn’t in his pocket, and he lost his stele sometime during the fight. Aside from his shoulder, it is mostly scrapes and bruises and the backlash of having used too much runic power, anyway.

Alec leans his head into his palm, fingers pressing into his temple. He’ll be fine once he gets some rest.

But, for now, his job is to take care of Magnus. So that’s what he’s going to do.

~ ~ ~

Waking up is a dreadful affair, and quite possibly the worst decision Magnus has made in a very long time. The absence of any instinctual fear or tension reassures him that, although his memories of what caused the aching hollowness inside him remains an unknown, he is in no immediate danger and he breathes a quiet sigh.

His thoughts move like sluggish fish through murky waters. He considers following them down into the deep dark where this all-encompassing ache can’t follow; he is tired beyond words, the kind that is only brought on by severe magic depletion…

His brow wrinkles in a frown.

When the memories return—murky, still, but with enough clarity to have his heart skip a beat—answering the alluring call of oblivion is suddenly the furthest thing from his mind.

Magnus forces his eyes open—and has to squeeze them shut at the offending sun, the light sharp enough that it can only belong to early morning. He breathes deeply through his nose, recognizing the smells and feel of home—a word that has been firmly attached to one person and one person alone for months.

He braces himself and blinks his eyes open again. It takes a while for his blurry vision to coalesce into the familiar lines and colors of his bedroom; when it does, his eyes immediately fall on the tall figure slumped next to the bed.

Maybe it’s the angle, or Magnus’s own exhaustion, but Alec looks awfully pale, even for him. He’s tilted to the side in the armchair, head resting in his palm, eyes closed. He looks like a wilted flower, drained and a little neglected, but still beautiful.

Even with the visible rise and fall of his chest, Magnus’s heart constricts at the sight and he clears his throat.

“Alec.”

Alec jerks—a full-body flinch that ends with bleary hazels pinning Magnus to the bed as effectively as the exhaustion weighing down his limbs. For a moment, all they do is stare at each other. Magnus sees the moment where Alec’s brain registers what his eyes are seeing, the tension visibly bleeding out of him.

“Magnus,” he breathes. “Thank the Angel.”

Magnus attempts to shuffle himself into a seated position, but every movement, no matter how small, reveals a myriad of new aches and he gives up with a groan.

“I assume that this is not the afterlife?”

Alec huffs a tired laugh.

“No. We made it. Thanks to you.” Magnus vaguely remembers pleading words and worried hazels, his only anchor in a whirling fog of confusion; but it’s hard to focus on the memory when those hazels are searing into him now. “How are you feeling?”

With Alec awake and coherent, Magnus allows his eyes to fall close.

“Like I could sleep for a decade,” he sighs. He takes a deep breath and wrinkles his nose. “And like I’m covered in demon ashes.”

“Bath?” Alec asks, and Magnus's lips quirk at the amusement he can hear in his voice.

“You read my mind.”

Magnus doesn’t know who is supporting who as they stagger to the bathroom. They must make quite the sorry sight—he would laugh about it, if he had the energy. And if the shivers coming from the body next to him didn’t reignite his worry for his boyfriend.

Alec sits him down on the toilet seat and goes about filling the tub, adding oils at Magnus’s mumbled instructions. The quiet is comfortable, lulling Magnus to the brink of sleep before Alec’s hands, pushing his vest off of his shoulders, bring him back to the present.

The moment Alec divests of his own shirt, Magnus’s breath catches—and not for any of the usual reasons.

He’s reaching out before he’s made the conscious decision to, fingers grazing the jagged edges of what must be over a dozen puncture wounds. They’re deep and uneven, the skin hanging off in ribbons of flesh in places, as if it’s been carved off by a rake.

Hellhound.

He suddenly remembers the beast leaping at Alec from the shadows, his own scream ripped from his throat when his boyfriend disappeared into a moving black sea.

“Why haven’t you healed yourself?” It comes out weaker, and more accusatory, than he intended.

“Lost my stele,” Alec mumbles, eyes fluttering close at Magnus’s gentle prodding. It’s beautiful, how his whole being yields to Magnus’s touch as if it’s second nature—but Magnus is too disturbed by the grisly sight before him to entertain the thought for long.

“Why didn’t you use your spare?” Since a similar incident months ago, where Alec had been injured and Magnus’s magic was temporarily unreachable to him, they always keep a spare at the loft.

When Alec doesn’t respond, Magnus glances up at him and finds him blinking slowly, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. Magnus sighs. The mere thought of using even the smallest amount of magic makes him sway, but that’s never stopped him before. He snaps his fingers, summoning the angelic tool to the sink—the sink that he immediately has to lean against when his vision goes black.

There’s a hand on his arm and a hiss of his name and he swallows.

“I’m okay.” He blinks Alec’s concerned face into focus. His head weighs a ton. “I’m okay.” He nods toward the stele. “Now, please, heal yourself.”

Alec frowns at him, eyes sharp and searching and every muscle in his body coiled so tightly it makes Magnus’s own muscles ache. He keeps his grip on Magnus’s arm—which is probably for the best—but does as instructed. It isn’t until he’s placing the stele back down and the torn skin at his shoulder starts to slowly knit itself together that Magnus feels like he can breathe again.

Alec removes both of their clothes with a soldier’s efficiency, guiding Magnus into the bath with steady, gentle hands. Magnus sighs the moment he submerges himself into the water, relaxing even further when Alec slides in behind him mere moments later, drawing him into his chest.

Despite what led them here this time, Magnus feels warm and comfortable to his very core. The same clearly can’t be said of his boyfriend; Alec is an unyielding, tense surface behind him—a wall of ice that refuses to let the temperate waters soften its sharp edges. It’s not the first time it has happened, following a close call.

Magnus tilts his head to the side, forehead against Alec’s throat.

“Let go, Alec.” He brushes his lips against the underside of Alec’s jaw. “It’s time to stand down.”

He feels the shudder as if it originates from himself. Alec nuzzles into his hair, the arms around him tightening.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

Magnus trails his fingers over Alec’s arm and doesn’t say anything. It’s not something he can promise, and they both know it. He would ruin himself for the ones he loves, the same as Alec would—the same as they already have, on numerous occasions. The prospect that they are, for lack of a better phrasing, in this together, is both daunting and oddly comforting.

“I love you,” he mumbles instead, because that is, and always will be, true. He feels Alec’s shaky breath dampen his hair.

“I love you, too.”

They stay long after the water has cooled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the tone of this chapter differs markedly from the first one, I can only say that getting into the same mindset that I had one year ago when I wrote the first part was... hard. I hope it didn't disappoint!


End file.
